Paper Wings (and Kerosene)
by yatagarasuoh
Summary: But sometimes even the strongest fall, and sometimes gravity pulls harder at those with the heaviest shadows. This is something Rivaille knows well, too. [spoilers up to chpt 46 of manga. oocness everywhere. sorry not sorry.]


彡彡彡

Smoke curls from fingertips, rising on ashes and transparent twine. It's suffocating in narrow spaces, filling in the cracks of blackened lungs and spreading deep even into the gaps between fingers, the air hanging just above delicate breaths. Rivaille finds it hard to concentrate with the thick fumes wafting around him, and he silently curses the audacity of the aboveground folks in bringing their cigars down here. They have no sky for the smoke to escape to; their sky is the dank color and drip of wet brick hanging above their heads. Breathable air is already sparse in their underground colony, and this is clearly an act that threatens his survival. He can already feel death itching at the back of his throat, threatening to claw out with its cold, cold hands.

"Hey, kid," one of the officers sneers in his direction, and Rivaille can see the stains of years-old tobacco on rotten teeth. He stares back and does not flinch when footsteps draw closer to him, boots heavy on dirt and grime. "What are you staring at, you filthy scum?" the man smoking the cigar roars, breath stinking of odium and fattened greed. Rivaille subconsciously tightens his fingers around his dagger and waits patiently. The emblem of the military police gleams brightly even in the darkness of a world in shadow.

There is a collective gasp from the police when he withdraws his fist, knuckles stained crimson with the blood of the wounded man staggering backwards. For a moment he seems to balance in the air perfectly, but then time resumes its steadfast tempo and Rivaille watches the man collapse onto his side with a measured slit in his chest. The people of underground have seen this done many times; they are used to this. And he's done this before, so many times, and all the sight does is make him wrinkle his nose in disgust. This is something that is needed to be done for survival, and Rivaille is determined on surviving until he at last can reach his hands into the bright blue sky he's only glimpses of.

"You think you have everything, don't you," he hisses at their stupid expressions. "Just because everything is fine and dandy for you up there, you assume that there is nothing wrong with the world at all." Rivaille can do it again, kill another just for the sake of it, watch their expressions go from stupefied to horrified. But he can't be bothered with their density and instead totters away into the shadows. There is no point in picking fights with those who can't even define themselves, pull away from the government's damn judgment and look at the big picture.

The only reason he can tell that it is night is because the people are sluggish, slowing down as the sun outside sinks below the rugged horizon. He remains awake, however, because one cannot simply rest when they are backs to be stabbed, betrayals to be committed, places to run to. One doesn't just wait for death to come. There is a slight chance that someone would be willing to kill him at night, and he will not allow everything to come to a stop so easily. He still has yet to fulfill his desires. This is just another sleepless night spent underneath the world's shadow, and he briefly runs the tips of his fingers over the sodden bricks, wondering what it would be like to be burned up by the light outside.

Rivaille is offered freedom at dawn. Warm but rough hands tug him gentle towards the surface, and the stern man with feathers etched over his back whispers, "Do you want to fly? Do you? Can you?" He doesn't know why he doesn't resist, pull away like he would to any other person and watch their life slip past the lines in his palm and the spaces between his fingers. Instead he finds himself quietly agreeing, eyes wrenched wide open as he is guided gently up the stairs, out into the searing brightness that makes his eyes sting and his flesh burn.

"People like you deserve to fly more than me," the chief, Irvin, says quietly. "People with a desire to survive and feel the sunlight and the moonlight underneath them rather than out of reach. You understand, don't you?"

And trainee Rivaille, now clad in clothes that seem so strict yet freeing, nods. Everything seems to glow and his eyes water with every shift of his gaze. He cannot see everything, not yet with the way it burns, but he refuses to close his eyes in fear that this world may disappear right in front of him. Even Chief Irvin's gentle smile is brighter than anything Rivaille has ever seen. It feels almost as if the very sight could crumble to sand and fall out from between his fingers.

"Train hard, train well," he is told. "Maybe one day you will be able to fly."

And taking those words into his shielded and shriveled, small little heart, Rivaille begins to dream of having wings.

彡彡彡

There's a fire in those fiery green eyes, Rivaille notices. It seems oddly distant and familiar, like it was once a part of him, too. He stares coldly at the assembly before him, the courtroom full of arrogant bigots and big shots that can't tell left from right. It's expected that they want to rid of the anomaly. After all, fear can eat a man alive without ever presenting itself in physical manifestations. Many members of the crowd are among the people who have never encountered a titan before, and Rivaille scoffs at the ignorance practically seeping into the air. It's sickening.

After the court is dismissed, Rivaille immediately takes to wiping the blood off of his boots, grimacing at the stains that it leaves behind. Irvin comes up to him, an impassive look setting his fine features into stone.

"What are you thinking, Rivaille?" he asks, and it's scary how well Rivaille is read by the chief. While he is unreadable to others, every last minute detail never fails to escape detection by his superior.

"He has fire in his eyes," Rivaille says, and he moves onto scrubbing at his other boot.

No other words need to be said. He remembers it as the same reason that Irvin had picked him up off the grimy underground street corners, mugging people for food and money that he could not get with a job. The dagger from years ago has long been thrown out, but the feeling of its wooden handle and serrated edge are engraved deep into the crevices of Rivaille's mind. Memories are fresh like spilled blood.

Journeying to the outpost castle only lulls him into a sense of nostalgia. Old brick and the smell of decay are reminiscent of days spent alone and wandering. It's become habit now, for him to start cleaning immediately. He clears the dust and wipes down the walls in a rhythmic sort of manner, empty. There's no real point in doing this other than to hope that his filth will be washed away with everything else. But no matter what Rivaille does, and no matter how much he cleans and scrubs until his hands are cracked and raw, those feelings resurface with a mere inhale of fresh air. It's a desperate cycle of rinse and repeat with no real destination besides one that cannot be reached.

The dark hours of night are filled with Hanji's useless chatterbox tendencies, pulling the Yeager kid into something that he really shouldn't have asked for. While the rest of the team goes to spend time recuperating and preparing for their next missions, Rivaille trudges up the steps and basks in the silvery pool of moonlight as he settles down for watch. The darkness wraps around him like a thick blanket, and he is left to watch the stars wink restlessly under the flicker of torchlight. He knows that these instances when his thoughts are louder than his own breathing, sleep will be more elusive than information on titans.

Even after all those years spent aboveground, Rivaille still isn't used to the lightening of the sky just before dawn, light spilling out over the horizon like molten gold. He can't help but stare at the sight and grow entranced at the way shadows fade away into color.

"Corporal?" It's Petra's concerned voice, and Rivaille turns his head the slightest to watch his team member clamber up the steps. "Everyone is already having breakfast. Would you like some coffee?"

Warmth seeps into his chilled skin and uniform as the sun crawls higher and higher into the sky. He sighs and picks himself up onto his feet, brushing past Petra with nothing more than a soft whisper. A new day brings new worries, and he can only do so much to keep everything under control. "Didn't you say everyone was having breakfast? Quit being so slow."

As if to mock Rivaille, the morning birds continue their errant chirping.

彡彡彡

He doesn't say much after they've finished wrapping up his leg. Rivaille feels numb, more numb than usual, and even the sharp pricks of pain when he moves does little to ease him out of his reverie. The titan brat is still knocked out, and he can see the kid's brows furrowing from what could be a nightmare. It isn't surprising, really. All of Rivaille's teammates have just been slaughtered by the female type titan, yet there is little that they can do about that fact. He's prepared himself for occasions like this, and it feels strange. He's grown up protecting only himself, and now he sees his comrades dying because he failed to protect them. The rule of thumb underground had been that one can only care for themselves, but here, everyone cares about everyone. It goes against what Rivaille has learned in his younger days.

When Rivaille closes his eyes, he is haunted by the sight of his dead teammates staring at him with their lifeless eyes. He remembers flitting through the trees, searching for survivors, only to be met with empty gazes and mangled bodies. Ackerman's words echo dully in his head. Of course, if he had done his duty to protect the kid, perhaps they wouldn't have gone through so much collateral damage at once. It's his duty, after all; he doesn't live a world where he can protect only himself anymore.

But it is also protecting someone else that has gotten him into this predicament, too, Rivaille muses.

The crowd is always noisy when the gates are opened to let the Scouting Legion in. He hears their whispers, their gossip, their fake little acts of respect when in reality, all the people are thinking is _at least it wasn't me_. And maybe it's guilt that thuds painfully in his chest when Petra's father comes up to him with a brilliant smile on his weathered face. Maybe it's regret that courses through his veins when he thinks about all the soldiers who died because of their failed mission. Maybe it's shame that causes him to look down and count the number of stones in his way.

"Humankind's strongest soldier!" the people claim, bright-eyed and hopeful, and all Rivaille can do is stare. He can't deny even if he wants to. Instead his lips are glued shut and he walks past without screaming that he's not, that he's not anything more than a normal man. Even with the sun shining down on him, he is unbearably cold. The fluttering feathers on the emblem blazoned onto his uniform are heavy and drag him down with each step. Who would've thought that the possession of wings would root him even further into the earth?

"Rivaille?" Chief Irvin asks once they've reached the safety of the inner walls. "Is something wrong?"

Fire burns bright inside of green eyes. "It's nothing," Rivaille murmurs, looking up into the sky. Black dots in the expanse of deep blue disappear as wings take the birds higher. He releases a breath that he doesn't recall holding. "It's just... The shadows are growing darker. That's all."

彡彡彡

"Corporal, sir." The kid's voice is cautious, like he's scared that anything odd will provoke Rivaille into a fit of fury. "Hanji-san wants to know if you'd like some more coffee."

For a moment he is silent, and then Rivaille raises his hand to beckon the kid closer. "Eren Yeager, was it?" The surprise in those green eyes in unmistakable. "Well then, Yeager. Tell me, what do you live for?"

"What do you mean?" And the brat looks clueless, so naïve and ignorant despite all he's been through. Sometimes Rivaille wishes he could be the same way, wishes that he'd been cultured into being spoon fed all his ideals and beliefs with an iron fist. Anything is better than the upbringing and undoing of a life spent prying apart at secrets too secret and realities too real. "I live to protect my friends and humankind. I'm alive because I protect them, and in return, they protect me. Isn't that what being a soldier's all about, sir? To protect the people and give them hope for another day?"

"Protecting the people, huh…" Rivaille sighs. "Have you ever heard of a soldier who protects no one but themselves?"

Eren blinks, opens his mouth, closes it, and frowns. "Pardon?"

"…Forget it." Waving the kid off, Rivaille goes back to his paperwork, squinting at the arched letters that seem to blur into an illegible mess. "Didn't you say you were here to get me more coffee? Hurry up, brat."

Footsteps recede into the distance and once again Rivaille is left to his own devices, the tapping of his pen against burnished wood loud in the lonely atmosphere. _All I am doing, _he thinks, _is working towards fattening the government. What happened to everything else?_ It's that feeling of wondering what the hell he is doing in a place that he clearly doesn't belong in, a rut of never-ending questions played back on a reel in his head, over and over, and over. Back in his little world without sunlight, things had been much simpler. It used to be all about saving his own hide, spitting in the faces of the officials and their weak qualms and fears. If someone died, then they were dead. It wasn't a question of whether they could be saved or not.

This, though, is about sweeping up after the dead's footsteps. Here they have no choice but to listen to the snobbish gallantry of the upper powers while they suffer in grueling, backbreaking work and watch the people around them drop from the skies like stones. With every sunrise and every sunset, dehumanization rises and destruction falls. It's funny, really, to see how organization is established with the decadence of morality and sense of humanness. The higher they fly, the more powerful gravity becomes.

The knocking on wood forces Rivaille out of his thoughts, and he watches the titan kid struggle with the door for a few seconds before finally stepping in. Black liquid, bitter and hot, sloshes against the tin confines of the cup, and he watches the foam settle with mild interest.

"Corporal. Sir, you're bleeding."

And sure enough he is. Rivaille glances down at the broken pen in his hand and watches the ink darken his blood to black. Before he can do anything, however, someone else starts to unwrap the chokehold he has on the writing utensil, painstakingly gentle and inexperienced, stiff finger by stiff finger. The brat's hands are warm, he notes, much warmer than his own that have felt like ice since he first learned how to wield a knife. Briefly Rivaille tries to remember how long it's been since he's felt warmth like that, sincere down to the bones. So long ago that it feels like a previous lifetime.

"I'll be fine," he interrupts after a while, snatching his arm away from questing fingers that feel more like branding irons than anything else now. "Take the tray back to Hanji. It will only get in the way and make things messier. Now go. You will not speak a word of this to anyone." He adds after a bit of consideration, "Eren."

The boy pauses, shock apparent in the tension lining his shoulders. "Yes, Corporal Rivaille?"

"Keep this in mind. Sometimes even the strongest of wings cannot keep flying forever. "

The coffee is a bitter dreg on his tongue and it burns his throat as he swallows mindlessly. It's always been like this though, hasn't it? Rivaille has known the taste of pain for as long as he can remember, and a bit of rotten acid in his mouth does little to hurt him now. It's not something that goes away. Rather, it drowns him more with every snap of tender tendons and rotting of brittle bones underneath cutting edge and determined self-destruction. (It's the breaking down of thought process with each step, the decomposition of being).

彡彡彡

The battlefield is both an arena for the body and for the mind. One forgets who they are if they aren't careful, and sometimes they'll end up victims to their frantic thoughts before the becoming titan meals. He's seen it before, the way eyes roll back into heads and lips form some sort of desperate prayer to whatever gods might be there or not. A lot of people seem to think that there is some sort of deity, some sort of higher power that holds jurisdiction over them all. The thought alone has Rivaille's lips curling in disgust.

The battle itself is purging. If something goes wrong, the body can live on while the soul has been abandoned someplace colder than the recesses of a human mind. There isn't anything to live for, and there isn't anything to die for either. It's just existing without a purpose, wandering the streets in hopes that something might spark their insides with life again. In this case, hearts are emptier than the higher up's sincerity.

But the saddest case is when a soldier takes their trauma and turns it into blame against themselves. It's a constant parrying battle between relief that oneself is alive and guilt that everyone else is dead. But guilt doesn't bring people back. Rivaille knows this all too well. It's a fact seared into the back of his eyelids that pulses with the screams of hundreds of soldiers. The only way he's learned how to cope is by telling others that everything is unpredictable, by telling himself that sometimes things can't be helped.

He's still quite angry over the realization that Chief Irvin had been partially responsible for his team member's deaths. So he knows how to deal with one bratty teenager caught in a whirlpool of his own emotions. It's better to think about something else anyways.

"I'm sorry," is all that the kid says. Nightmares seem to last for a very long time. "For not doing what I should've. It is my fault that—that your team—"

"Eren." The name is still odd and foreign on his tongue. "It's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault. No one could have known that what happened was going to happen."

"But are you really alright with that, sir? Corporal, are you really fine with knowing that the person responsible is still alive, right here with you, talking and breathing the air that they aren't?" Emerald irises shine brightly in the light of day, fierce and reckless. Rivaille notices that bloodied fingers are wrapped tightly around the green cloak of the Scouting Legion, buried into the wings that he remembers donning when he had been just as reckless. Maybe he is still the same now. "You're the corporal, humanity's greatest soldier. You would know wouldn't you?"

"Much time has passed since that incident," Rivaille scoffs. _I'm not. I don't. You're wrong. _"There is no need to worry about past events; it will only slow us down. Do not get distracted by such idiotic simplicity, Yeager."

But even so, he thinks as he watches the kid's retreating back. All the nightmares that haunt him now are how he was not able to protect any of them. He wonders how much it would take to a return to a world where selfishness reigned supreme and heroes didn't emerge from within trampled towns and crushed walls.

There isn't much thrill in flying anymore, Rivaille realizes. It's become more of a chore than anything, and his body feels so heavy in comparison to the lightness he had experienced in earlier days. _It's just my imagination_, he insists, and forces himself to climb higher and higher. The eyes that look up at him are magnificent flames, memories of dark and cold, cold and dark days. The air grows thin and the shadow behind him is dark and enormous. If he were to fall, it would swallow him easily.

But the sky holds him dearly and caresses his delicate wings. He is balancing on a thin thread of dreams thwarted by responsibility. There is just the question of how long it will take for him to fall.

彡彡彡

The world is set on fire as Rivaille opens his eyes to sterilized white and concerned gazes. His body is rigid and refuses to move even when he commands his limbs to work, to lift him up and wipe off those pitying stares burning right through his entire being. It's physical pain, shocking his nerves into submission and his mind into frantic screaming. The wounds seem to be crawling with acid, seeping out of his pores and drenching him through and through with the opposite of his usual intrepidity. The emotional agony is too much to handle; he doesn't remember how to shut it all out.

"Corporal," Eren whispers. "Are you alright?"

"Hanji-san and Chief Irvin are worried about you," Eren says softly, and there is an undertone of pity as he helps Rivaille sit up to survey the bandages suffocating him. He hates it. He's not a fucking charity case. But deep down Rivaille knows that now he really is, because how can he go back into battle with broken wings? "…Corporal Rivaille, sometimes people need to protect themselves more than others. I believe that strong wings, even after they've been broken many times, will heal, and they will fly again. I don't think you should give up hope. You haven't given up, right? Sir?"

Rivaille refuses to reply to Eren, and when Hanji kneels beside him, he keeps his lips sealed shut. Even the sight of Chief Irvin curdles Rivaille's guts and he closes his eyes against the lights. The darkness is cool and welcoming. He wants them all to leave him to his silence. And eventually they do. Their words only drown him in the kerosene he's stayed away from for so long. He thinks it's alright for the world to be set on fire like this, with dreams in one hand and ragnarok in the other.

彡彡彡

Rivaille watches the smoke curl around nothing in the dark, eyes wary and fingers tight around worn wood. Metal gleams blindingly in the light of kerosene-fueled flames, and the warmth coils around him like molted feathers. It must've rained earlier, since he can smell the dreary clouds hanging in a sky that he has only seen glimpses of. He wonders what it would feel like to stretch out his arms and feel the world breathe below his fingertips. The sky here would become his ground, and he would walk on the limitations of his youth, fly unrestrained with only the sun bearing down on him.

He doesn't run away when the men laugh and advance towards him, symbol of the military police flashing like hidden daggers. No, he gets ready to fight. Because this is something Rivaille can deal with. He can protect himself better than anything else he knows how to do. (But sometimes even the strongest fall, and sometimes gravity pulls harder at those with the heaviest shadows. This is something Rivaille knows well, too).

彡彡彡

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somewhat inspired by: torashii. tumblr post/53539557072


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